Thine Seeketh I
by KingOfJacks
Summary: Gwyndolin's final illusion has been dispelled and the truth of Anor Londo revealed. The city is empty, its residents having long forsaken it. But in this moment of weakness, one of them sneaks their way back into their ancient home. Gwynivere, daughter of Lord Gwyn and Goddess of Sunlight has returned to her ancient home, and she has her sights set on the Painting of Ariamis.


Night had fallen on Anor Londo, and, in that night, she crept back into the city.

Halfway across the world, she had felt the disturbance. It had been so long since she abandoned the home of her family, but she was and always would be tied to it. Long had her connection to her ancient homestead been tarnished by a film of falsehood. Gwyndolin had been holding that illusion for so long – truly, her brother had not been given enough praise for his power. Though of a different variety, he was certainly their father's son. When that illusion had finally been shattered, she had known that now would be her only opportunity. Her window was small and closing by the second. She needed to do this quickly.

For many reasons, not the least of which was her own nature, this dark was odd for her. Long had it been since her feet had felt the smooth stones of the City of the Gods, but to see it wreathed in such twilight was…disconcerting to say the least.

Gwynivere, daughter of Gwyn and Goddess of Sunlight, shook off the offensive feeling. Far had she travelled and much had she seen, but she had not felt the touch of the true Sun in millennia. She was well used to its absence and was at peace with it as compared to the blasphemous illusions she had been subjected to. To think even her own brother had dared to try and emulate the light of Gwyn.

Not that it mattered anymore. She knew why Gwyndolin had done what he did – she had forsaken the very same task herself so long ago. The illusion was gone now, and she was sure it would be repeated in the ages to come. Someone had clearly shattered all of her brother's work, and if they had gotten this far, they were likely the prime candidate in Gwyndolin and Frampt's ridiculous plot to prolong the age of the Gods. If that were the case, the Fire would be linked soon, and Gwyndolin would be free to begin his plot anew.

Gwynivere could not help but wonder, though, how her city would come out of such an arrangement. The prolonging of the age of Fire did not equate to the prolonging of the age of the Gods. There were none left in Anor Londo anymore, save Gwyndolin himself, and the rest of her kind were scattered to and fro on the Earth. She had turned nomadic. Her eldest brother had vanished so completely that even she could not find him whilst her young sister dozed in the Ringed City. Her husband, Flann, had left some time ago to confer with what the remained of the Witch of Izalith – he had not returned. Nito, for all she knew, was slumbering somewhere in some long forgotten grave. Velka was…Velka. And the rest were dead or gone in some fashion. There were so few of them left.

For this reason or that, Gwynivere knew that today would be the last time she graced Anor Londo with her presence. In truth, she would not have returned at all. But now, with no one left to tell her otherwise, there was something she needed to do.

Flanked by her loyal warriors, she breezed into the city, trailing effervescent light as she walked. The warriors of Faraam had been with her for ages now, her loyal compatriots and protectors. Long ago, they had served under the banner of a war god whom they had named. Her brother had, had so many names – ironic, really, considering how much he likely wished to have even one now. When her eldest brother had departed for places unknown, the Faraam Warriors had pledged their allegiance to her as a final show of loyalty to their first master. When she had forsaken Anor Londo, they had left with her. Now, the whole troupe of them crowded around her with swords drawn and eyes alert.

"You ought to relax, Captain," she told the highest ranking among them – her lieutenant, she supposed – soothingly. "There is nothing left in this city."

That was not strictly true. There were about a dozen living beings, crowded into a single room. Their purpose had not diminished, nor become unnecessary, and so they remained. Somewhere out there in the halls of this great city, she could sense a human rat scurrying about – Gwyndolin's little pest, she assumed. And, far below, in the tomb of her own father, she could sense Gwyndolin, himself.

Strange. She had honestly assumed Gwyndolin would be dead. How had his illusion fallen if he remained? No matter. He no doubt had sensed her presence, but she would hear nothing from him. He knew better than to show his face. No, her purpose here was not her brother. Rather, it was to address that hodgepodge of living souls crowded together on one of the lower levels.

"With respect, ma'am," the Captain responded to her politely, if gruffly, "there's nothing in this city that's overly fond of you anymore."

Gwynivere allowed herself a small smile. "Ah, but to be home again," she breathed out. "There is no greater feeling."

She knew these warriors would not agree with her. If she asked them, she knew they'd say their home was with her, but she knew the truth. Their home – where they felt most comfortable and at peace – was the heat of battle. It was a joy to watch them work, truly, but she did hope to avoid conflict today.

Without any further words, they continued on, moving quickly through the cities. Long it had been, but Gwynivere remembered the long-worn paths without any effort, easily navigating through the labyrinthian city. Her prize was near to the Grand Cathedral – a decision she had never understood given the nature of it – and she would admit she was reluctant to approach. The prize itself was worth it, she knew, but the Cathedral she had called home drudged up so many memories she'd rather forget. Memories of her brothers. Memories of Fillianore. Memories of her father.

Their lives had not always been conflict and worry. There had been millennium in-between the Dragon War and the First Fading of the Flame. They had been happy. Her father had ruled the Earth with temerity. The humans had been peaceful, even if the Pygmies had gotten a bit uppity later on. Her brother had come and gone on a whim, always returning with wonderous stories of contest and conquest. Gwyndolin, the little mischief, always teasing at Fillianore. Gwynivere remembered fondly her secret little tryst with Ornstein in her chambers. Oh, but how closely he had come to know the term 'thunder of the gods' when her brother had found out. He was only very lucky that her father had never been told.

Then, all at once, it had seemed to go awry. Where there was peace, there was suddenly conflict and it seemed that nothing was sacred. Havel and his band threw their little rebellion. Oolacille tampered with the forbidden magics of the Abyss, unknowingly summoning Artorias off to deal with the problem. The Witch of Izalith hatched her ridiculous plan to copy the First Flame, and her father had gone off for years on his campaign against the Demons. Fillianore had been sent off to the Ringed City to appease the Pygmies, with ought but a newborn dragon to go with her. And Seath…Seath began to dabble in things he shouldn't have. The foolish drake became too curious for his own good, and his curiosity had turned its eyes on to her.

When that curiosity came to its…unfortunate fruition, the world reviled it. Her father had returned then, just in time to see the 'abomination'. Ariamis, damn that wretched painter, had forged for the god of Sunlight a most marvelous prison to house the creature, and her brother, disgusted by it all, had departed, stricken from the histories forever.

Now the circle was complete, and Gwynivere stood beside the painting that had chased two of Gwyn's children out of Anor Londo for this reason or that. It was a hideous thing, really. All blacks and smudged browns, depicting in vivid detail the wretched landscape of an eternal winter. It had been smaller when she left, but if there was one thing her father enjoyed, it was imprisoning that which he disagreed with. This painting was likely stuffed full of all of the forbidden things her father wouldn't allow. She wondered if Gwyndolin had put anything into it in his time as ruler of Anor Londo.

Ever loyal, the Painting Guards stepped out of the shadows, their blunted blades poised to strike at the intruder. She smiled. If nothing else, Anor Londo could command astounding loyalty. Eternal night was falling, the Flame was fading and here they remained. It was commendable, if stupid.

She had only to step into the light of the shining moon for them to realize their mistake. Almost as one, they froze, rigid with fear and confusion, before deep laced habit brought them, bowing, to their knees.

"My lady," one of them, presumably their commander, spoke. "It is a great honor. Long has it been since you walked among us."

"And long have you kept your post," she smiled. "You are commended, Commander."

If possible, the man bowed deeper. "Your praise is all the commendation we require, your grace."

"I will keep that in mind," she told him, maintaining her smile. "Now, stand aside."

Not a one of them moved. The commander twitched nervously. He tried to speak, failed, and then tried again. "It-It is forbidden, your grace."

The smile slid from the Goddess' face. Drawing up to her full height – a height that easily towered over this small man – she spoke with steel. "Who is left to forbid me anything?"

"Lord Gwyndolin –" the commander began.

"Yes, go and fetch my brother," she ordered him. "And if he has the bravery to stand before me, I shall listen to whatever paltry command he dares to give out."

"My lady," the commander tried again, only to be cut off.

"I am Gwynivere," she declared. "Daughter of Lord Gwyn and Goddess of Sunlight. And you will stand aside."

There was a very brief pause. Then the commander stood, bowed from his waist and withdrew to the side of the room, followed swiftly by his silent men. Gwynivere nodded very regally at the commander, and then she strode forward, coming to a stop just below the painting. Tentatively, she reached out.

"My lady," her captain spoke up, causing her to pause. "Allow us to go first. We know naught what lies within the painting."

"I know very well what lies within this prison, Captain," she told him. "And you will not be accompanying me."

"It is our duty to protect you, my lady." To his credit, the captain knew exactly how to speak to her. He was not arguing with her in the slightest, nor countermanding her order. He was merely stating to her a fact. A fact she was aware of.

"There is nothing in this painting that can hurt me," she lied. "And, besides, you cannot enter. You do not have the key."

"My lady?" the captain questioned, confused.

Gwynivere did not grace him with an answer. Instead, she very tentatively reached out, her fingers splayed wide, hesitant to touch the oils of the painting. She had wanted to do this for so long and still did, but the reality was that it terrified her. This painting was powerful, however much she hated it, and she knew that to have achieved a size such as this, that there were many things imprisoned within. Things that very likely could harm her. And at the center of it all was a being she knew could hurt her more deeply than anything else.

Very softly, her fingers pressed against the smooth canvas. She felt the instant grip of the painting's magic. Powerful and persistent, it threatened to pull her in. She resisted that, exerting all her will to overcome the magic. She was no thickheaded undead to be pulled in a dumped wherever the painting pleased. She would stroll into this place as easily as she had this city, and she would bring with her the light of the gods.

With a calculated amount of effort, Gwynivere stepped into the Painted World of Ariamis.

A great chill ran through her entire form, as if she had stepped through a sheet of icy water, but when she emerged on the other side, the cold fled from her in fear. Around her, she watched as the snow melted, muddying the dirt. She carried in her the warmth of the true sun. It would take more than Ariamis' paltry magics to overcome such a power.

In fact, she knew very well that she could not stay here long. Her very essence was abrasive to the literal fabric of this reality. Stay too long, and she would unravel it with her mere presence. This world would melt and its inhabitants with it. This prison was made with the intent to keep her and her kind out as much as it was to keep its residents in.

Looking to and fro, she spotted her target from a far-off distance. It would be a short, unpleasant walk to get there. By now, the painting had likely corrupted its inhabitants beyond recognition. Cut off from the Flame as they were, they were likely to have gone mad. And, having never been properly sane to begin with, Gwynivere was unsure how such beings would react to true madness. The true scope of just what was here in this world was lost on Gwynivere. When she had left Anor Londo, the painting had been home to only three notable prisoners. There was a dragon here of considerable size which had proved too problematic to deal with, a large number of the over-powerful followers of Velka and the one she was here to see today. Gwynivere was confidant in her own power, but she knew well enough to move quickly.

Gwynivere left a noticeable trail of exposed dirt and rock as she walked. The light of her presence extended no farther than her own feet, as if it was afraid to reach out for the rotting darkness of this place. But this world did not wish to touch her either. She could feel the toxic film of it all at the edge of her perception. It shirked away from her in a cloudy wave, pulsating around in her in an equidistant dome, terrified and angry at her presence.

The Painting's inhabitants were no different. Hollow or not, the poor souls sucked into this place over the centuries knew better than to approach her. And so they skulked into their dark corners, the glowing reds of their eyes following her as she walked through the dilapidated township. Idly, Gwynivere wondered at this place. Had Ariamis painted for his prisoners a town to call home? Or had the inhabitants built it for themselves?

Far off, the ancient dragon slumbered, perched on a long, narrow bridge. It was bloated now, sagging and drooping in places that had once been stiff, muscled stone. He had been here for millennia, and his power had weakened. Very idly, it lifted its large head and peered at her curiously. She paused long enough to meet its gaze and offered it the smallest of nods. It snorted at her – in indifference or disdain, Gwynivere did not know – and returned to its slumber.

Shortly, the Goddess of Sunlight came to a great door that was sealed tight. Locked by some contraption, it had no handle, nor keyhole. Likely there was some kind of lever hidden here that could open it. Who had made this door? And why? Had it been to keep others out? Or to keep someone in? Gwynivere ignored the curiosity of it, impatient and eager to leave this place. She reached out, pressing her hand against the uneven wood and rusted metal. If she concentrated, Gwynivere could feel the oils this world was made of even now. She knew she only had to press and they would melt, sliding off of the canvas and destroying this world in a fell swoop. But such an action was risky. She ran the risk of destroying the entire Painting if she tried.

Closing her eyes, Gwynivere breathed deep. She could feel the door rebelling against her. Its very nature was to stay closed. It had always been closed and to open was wrong. She ignored its pathetic protests. They were nothing to her. It was nothing to her. She was the Goddess of Sunlight and the only will that mattered was hers. _Yield_, she commanded it. _Yield or else be destroyed_.

The door yielded, separating with a long series of scattered cracks. Likely, it had been closed for hundreds of years. To be open was a new experience for it. She could sense the scattered bodies of a dozen or so hollows spread out among the bridge, hanging from its side or dangling from its rafters. They too shied away from her.

Approaching the dilapidated tower, Gwynivere began to slow. She looked back. Briefly, she contemplated just abandoning this mission. Her path was clear behind her, snowless and warmed by her presence. She could follow it back, out of this world and into the real one. _She_ need never know Gwynivere had been here.

Only, she did know. She had surely felt the Goddess' presence the moment she had entered this world. And, in truth, Gwynivere knew she could not abandon her again. She had done it once before, all those years ago. And the decision had haunted her for so long that she had returned to her old home the moment an opportunity had presented itself to her. She could not now bare to turn away again. For better or worse, Gwynivere would see this through to its end.

The Goddess ducked through the entryway of the tower. She had hoped that what she had seen from the bridge had been misleading – an illusion or a lie. But her eyes had not deceived her. The tower was empty. There was no ceiling above her. The falsified night sky of this world was even more offensive to her eyes than the lack of light in the true world. Upon the ground, there lay a thick blanket of snow – thicker by far than the haphazard sheets she had passed by on the way here – that strangely did not melt.

It seemed there was another presence here, their nature opposite to her own but powerful enough to equalize it. Gwynivere wasn't surprised. Like mother, like daughter.

"You can show yourself," she whispered. "I know you're here."

For a long moment, there was naught but silence. The wind howled and, distantly, she could hear the rustling of the small town's inhabitants. Then the snow crunched underneath some invisible foot, leaving a clear indentation in the pristine bank and Gwynivere felt the razor edge of some weapon press gently against her throat.

The Crossbreed Priscilla appeared slowly. She came into being as if the transparency was being blown off of her. Gwynivere caught sight of her hair first, the silvery locks blown wildly in the wind, followed by the deep folds of her overlarge dress. Then it was her hands, gripped tightly to the blackened length of a great scythe whose blade appeared just where it felt it ought to be, against her throat.

"You should not be here."

Gwynivere smiled. How many had told her that just today? The Faraam Captain had told her many times on their journey. The Painted Guard's Commander had told her only just moments ago. A thousand, thousand years ago her father had explicitly forbid her from ever coming here, and Gwyndolin had done his best to uphold that commandment. She, herself had even debated against coming. Yet, from the mouth of this beautiful creature, Gwynivere felt the words ring truer than they ever had.

"I know," she responded.

"You don't," Priscilla responded. "Your very presence here upsets this place. Stay too long and you'll melt this world. The seams of the canvas it was painted on will unravel."

"I know," Gwynivere repeated, the both of them aware that the destruction of the painting was not what the Crossbreed had been referring to.

Priscilla withdrew the blade of her scythe with practiced ease, sweeping it around in a wide arc that left an impression on the snowflakes in the air. Holding it high over her head, she extended an arm and pointed determinedly at the plank at the far end of the tower. There, Gwynivere could see a far-off forest, separated by a sheer, bottomless chasm. The exit to this place. It seemed Priscilla had taken up position as its guard.

But that made no sense. This place was a prison, designed to ensure those stuffed into it could not escape. Why would the person the prison was built for take up arms in defense of the only escape she and her fellow inmates might have?

"Then spare this world the danger of your presence and leave," Priscilla offered in a very commanding voice.

Gwynivere breathed in a shaky breath and shook her head. She smiled softly. "Not just yet." Seeing true irritation flash across her daughter's face, Gwynivere continued, "Please. I have journeyed far to be here. Won't you at least hear me out?"

Priscilla sighed softly through her nose and leaned very heavily on her scythe. "There is nothing for you here," she told her. "I know not what brought you to this place, nor do I particularly care. Your world is out there. Kindly return to it."

"Priscilla, my child, you brought me here," Gwynivere told her warmly. "I have waited so long for the chance to return to you. I am here for you."

"You brought yourself here," Priscilla countered. "Of my own free will, I did not summon you. And I do not wish you here. Leave."

"Hear me out," Gwynivere demanded, a touch of her authority creeping into her voice.

Priscilla would have none of it. Standing up to her full height – towering over even Gwynivere – the Crossbreed brought her scythe down, the blunted edge of its blade sweeping cleanly through the snow but not scraping against the stone.

"I know that the Gods care little for the whims and wants of those they rule over," Priscilla told her bitingly, "but the inhabitants of this world have suffered enough under the authority of your family. Kindly spare them the fear of losing the only place their forlorn souls have ever had to call home."

"I have nothing against these people," Gwynivere told her. "I know well the kinds of people my father imprisoned here. Traitors and untrustworthy lechers, yes, but a host of those he simply disagreed with or feared. This is a prison of innocents, I know. But do not preach to me about the innocence of this world. There are those imprisoned in here who deserve to be. Dragons, drakes and purveyors of forbidden arts."

"And abominations?" Priscilla questioned innocently, the faux naiveite of her tone stabbing deep at Gwynivere's heart.

"I opposed the creation of this world," Gwynivere spat. "Ariamis' blasphemous magics offend me to this day, and I hope he's rotting wherever he ended up. I told my father to burn this Painting the moment that fool presented it to him!"

"And yet you sat idly back when he did not heed your advice," the Crossbreed snapped, cutting her anger off at the heals. "Please. Spare me your false kindnesses, _Mother_. I know well the truth behind them."

Gwynivere reeled. Whatever righteous indignation had filled her before was promptly expelled by the toxicity of her daughter's tone. She breathed in a very shaky breath, attempting to still her suddenly beating heart. This was not how it was to go.

"Please, little one," she tried, smiling shakily. "I did not come here to argue with you about the transgressions of the Gods. They are gone and long forgotten by many. Please, let the past lie where it lay. Look to the future with me.

Priscilla turned her nose up at her. "How dare you!" she exclaimed. "How easy it must be for you to forget the past. Its arrogant tyranny never laid a finger on you, Mother. Safe atop your ivory tower all these thousands of years, I am sure such forgetfulness came easily."

"I have not lived in the luxury of Anor Londo for thousands of years," Gwynivere snapped. "I abandoned this place. My home! My family! I forsook it all."

"Oh, I know, Mother," Priscilla told her gently. "I know well that you have not been in Anor Londo and am not surprised at all by the development. Forsaking family is a hallmark of your life. I know that better than many others."

Gwynivere stumbled backwards as if struck by her daughter's words. "Priscilla –" she tried, but faltered. "I cannot begin to –"

"Spare me!" the Crossbreed snapped. "There is no apology you can utter to assuage my anger."

"I came here for you," Gwynivere told her. "As I always meant to. To abandon you to this place was the hardest thing I ever had to do. But believe me, I did not intend for it to last forever."

"A comforting thought to a little girl, taken screaming from her room in the night and cast out into the cold," Priscilla told her bitterly.

"They did not tell me," Gwynivere cried. "If they had, I surely would have taken you from the city! We would have left, never to return!"

"But we didn't. And the time for such niceties is long past, Mother."

"Please," Gwynivere tried. "Please, daughter listen to me. Anor Londo has fallen. This city has been forsaken by all of the gods. There is no one left. Father gave himself to the Flame centuries ago. Fillianore was taken from me by his backhanded politics and he drove your Uncle away to parts unknown. I bear no love in my heart for Gwyndolin. Priscilla, you are the only family I have left."

"Ah, but Mother," Priscilla said softly, "you are far from the only family I have left."

Gwynivere furrowed her brow, not understanding.

Throwing her arms out in a wide arc, Priscilla gestured grandly to all the world around her. "Grandfather was far from reticent with his desire to expunge from the world all that disagreed with him. But he has, unknowingly, gifted his monster of a granddaughter with the most amazing gift of all. In casting me out, he gave to me a home I could truly belong. A world to call my own and its inhabitants to serve as my loyal brothers and sisters. I do not need you, Mother. Nor do I need that world that called me 'abomination' and abandoned me here."

"Priscilla, _please_!" Gwynivere implored. "This world is coming to an end by one means or another. Either the Flame will be linked and this age forgotten or the Flame will fade and this world destroyed. Please, if not for me than for yourself – abandon this place. Run! Find someplace safe to hide yourself that I may know you are protected. I would be content with that, even if it were not with me!"

"To abandon one's home is your forte, Mother. I have no desire to replicate the habit."

"Priscilla –" Caught by a sudden whim, Gwynivere stumbled forward, her arms outstretched in a vain attempt to embrace her daughter. The Crossbreed nimbly dodged the desperate grip, dancing away from her. She left tracks in the snow where she had glided so smoothly across the snow.

"Our communion is over, Mother," Priscilla told her. "Depart from this place and do not offend it with your presence again."

"You are all I have left," Gwynivere told her, openly weeping now.

There was nothing within the Crossbreed but ice, and she was unmoved by her mother's show of sorrow. This woman had abandoned her to a fate fit for a dog when she had only been a girl. She had forsaken her from birth, ashamed of the circumstances of her conception and for however long she had wished for her Mother to come to her and rescue her from this cold world, those desires were long dead now. The frightened little girl had grown up and forgotten her need for another's love. She had her own self to support her and the friendship of her fellow prisoners.

Still, Priscilla was not the heartless monster she had been made out to be by her family all those years ago. Millennium in this forlorn world had made her debilitatingly empathetic. She had no desire to go with her Mother as she had requested, nor even a desire to entertain the notion. But to know she could help assuage the wounds of this weeping woman and to not do so was a foreign concept to her, however much it may be second nature to her mother.

"Archdragon Peak," she said in response to her mother's claim.

Gwynivere blinked away tears, surprised. "What?" she asked, confused.

"You say I am all the family you have left," Priscilla commented idly. "I say you should seek out Archdragon Peak."

"I don't understand," Gwynivere whispered.

"Many whispers have come to this place over the years from all corners of the world," Priscilla told her. "Grandfather was not reticent in assuaging his desire to imprison all that he disagreed with. So, Mother, listen to me just this once. Seek out Archdragon Peak."

Hesitantly, she laid a gentle hand on the Goddess of Sunlight's shoulder. "You may yet find what you are looking for."


End file.
